Hit and Run Page 12

  He has somehow embezzled a hundred and twenty-two thousand pounds. It’s a sizeable amount, but not exactly earth shattering. We could have scraped that together between us. I’d already given him thirty grand to invest. And he had some of his own. There should be forty grand in our joint account as well. My heart rate quickens as reality dawns. I think back to the refused transaction at the café yesterday and dash into the bedroom for my laptop.

  I don’t need to search through his papers for this, I simply need to open up the banking app on my computer. I scan down the three accounts I have. There’s only a few thousand in my personal current account. There’s a minus balance in our joint account and just over a hundred pounds showing in our ISA. I stare at the numbers, a chilly hand of fear clutching at my chest. Where the hell is all my money?

  I sift through papers in the bottom tray on his desk. Perhaps he’s done some transfers to an account with a higher rate of interest. Yes, that’s what it will be. Or to one with a reward, as an incentive for switching bank accounts. I pull out what looks like an agreement from the Yorkshire Building Society who we have our mortgage with. It’s a re-mortgage agreement. Oh, my God. He’s re-mortgaged the house. He can’t have done – they would have needed my signature. I jointly own it and paid my half at the start. My blood runs cold as I spot my signature and printed name, clear as day, at the end of the document. He’s taken a hundred grand out of the house. But I didn’t know about it. Could I have signed it when I’ve been drunk? I check the date. It’s only three months ago. The mortgage repayments will be much higher now than they were when we moved in nine years ago. And according to that message that was left – we’re behind.

  But there’s more. A joint loan for fifty grand – again sporting my signature. I haven’t agreed to any of this. He has been forging my signature. What on earth has he needed all this money for? I don’t get it. But more importantly, what the hell am I going to do to get it back? He’s totally cleaned us out. And I can’t confront a person who’s dead. I’ve still got his funeral to pay for which will potentially wipe out what’s left. That will be me, done. Finished.

  I Google James Turner, Manchester. There are several profiles on LinkedIn. One has the same profile picture as was on Facebook. I click through. It lists his profession as Financial Adviser. Looking further down his profile, I see he was at the same university, at the same time as Rob. That must be where they know each other from. But he doesn’t look familiar.

  I press on a hyperlinked phone number. My chest palpitates as I wait for a connection.

  “Is that James Turner?”

  “It is.” Even with those two words, I detect an arrogance in his voice.

  “You don’t know me, but you know my husband, Robert Matherson.”

  Silence. At least he doesn’t deny anything. Nor has he hung up. Yet.

  “Have you heard what’s happened to Rob?”

  “Yup.” There are no condolences – nothing.

  “I’m getting in touch to discuss some financial discrepancies I’ve discovered whilst going through Rob’s papers. There seems to have been a large payment made to yourself. Three hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds. What’s that about?”

  “I’ve absolutely no idea. Sorry. I can’t help you.”

  “But I’ve got the statement in front of me. Three hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds transferred last month to James Turner. I need to know where my money is.”

  “It must be a different James Turner. It’s not exactly an unusual name, is it?”

  “You and Rob were at university together. You’re friends on Facebook. It must be you. Perhaps you could check your accounts if you’re not sure.”

  “Don’t you think I’d know if three hundred and seventy-five thousand quid had hit my account?”

  “I have to know where our money has gone. My husband is dead, and this situation has left me with nothing.” I try to breathe through the panic I’m feeling. “I can barely cover the cost of his funeral. Can you at least check for me? I don’t mind waiting.”

  ““Look, love,” he says. He really sounds smarmy. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, ringing me out of the blue, but I know nothing of any three hundred grand, nor any discrepancies.”

  “Well, I’ll be giving the police your details. If you…”

  “I haven’t been in touch with Rob for months.” He cuts in. “Don’t bother me again, do you hear?” With a click, the line goes dead.

  As I try to gather my jumbled thoughts, the phone bursts back into life. The phone’s display says No Caller ID. I snatch it up from the desk, wondering if James Turner has taken pity on me and decided to tell me what he knows. But it’s a female voice.

  “Is that Mrs Matherson?”

  “Speaking?”

  “It’s Elaine Watson here from the Co-Operative Funeral Service in Otley. Did you get our message yesterday?”

  “Erm yes. Sorry for not getting back to you. I’m all over the place.”

  “I understand. It must be a difficult time.”

  They’ll have a stock of phrases, these funeral people. “I’ve had better weeks,” I say.

  “I’m ringing to let you know that the post-mortem report has now been passed to the police, and Mr Matherson is ready for collection from the hospital.” She’s so brisk, so business-like. “Do we have your authorisation to proceed as you initially instructed?”

  I want to tell her I do not know how I’ll pay for their services with only a few grand in my current account. But I won’t. I’ll have to manage. I haven’t a clue what I’m going to do. There’s Bryony who won’t tell me anything, Phillip Bracken, and now James Turner. It’s like a conspiracy.

  “Mrs Matherson?”

  “Sorry. Yes. Do whatever you have to.”

  “Can we make an appointment for you to come in? So we can start making the necessary arrangements?” I hear a rustling of pages. “Is tomorrow at four o’clock any good?”

  “Yes. I think so. I’ll get back to you if it isn’t.” I’ve lost all track of what day it is. I think it’s Friday tomorrow. Someone will collect Jack for me. Mum won’t be here with a bit of luck, but Dad hopefully will be. I could ask Christina, or there’s always Sam’s mum, Lynne. She always seems desperate to help.

  “There’s just one question I need to ask you.” She pauses. “Do you wish for us to undertake the embalming process with your husband?”

  “Whatever. Do what you would normally do.” Right now, I don’t care what they do. They can bury him in a ditch for all I care. Not only was he most likely carrying on with Bryony, he was lying to me about his job. Not to mention embezzling and thieving money, including mine, by forging my signature. My head is throbbing.

  “Right, I’ll be in touch if we need to know anything else, otherwise we will see you tomorrow. Oh, Mrs Matherson. Sorry, there is just one more thing.”

  “What?” I realise that my voice is sharp, but I want her to get lost and leave me to work out what I am going to do next. I’ve got things to get my head around other than the funeral. I can hear Mum moving about. Great. That’s all I need.

  “If you could bring an outfit for your husband. Something you’d like him to make his last journey in.”

  What a cheery thought. A cloth sack, I think to myself. I’m so angry. But mostly, I’m panicking. Unless I can find out what Rob has done with all our money, I’ve got nothing left once I’ve covered this funeral. He has got no other family to take it on. His parents had him late in life and his mum died when he was in his twenties. At least his father got to meet Jack. Rob was bereft when he died. What am I thinking about all this for now? I haven’t even found out what the mortgage arrears are yet. God – we could end up homeless as well! There has to be a way out of all this. And an explanation for it.

  “I’m sorry about last night, love.” Mum squeezes past me in the kitchen to pull a mug from the cupboard. “I don’t know what got into me.” I smell soap and shower gel on her. She certainly
looks better than she did.

  “Too much wine. That’s what got into you.” I try to smile, despite my misery. I can’t talk, some of the states I’ve got into over the years. Pot, kettle, and all that. “How are you feeling?”

  “Rough. Look I am sorry.”

  She must be. Mum never apologises. Twice in less than a minute is a record. “What are your plans now then?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Stay here for a few days. Help you out with Jack. Keep trying to talk Shane around…”

  “What about Dad?” I’m not going to tell her he’s on his way.

  “What about him?”

  “Shane, or whatever his name is, is making a go of his marriage. You said so yourself. Don’t you think you should do the same?” I glance at the clock above the cooker. I don’t know how the morning has slipped away so fast.

  “If I wanted a lecture, I would ask for one.” She fills a glass with water and takes what looks like paracetamol. She deserves every ounce of her hangover.

  “Mum, I’m not lecturing you, but I’ve got enough problems of my own. I can’t cope with yours right now.”

  “I get it. Your husband has died. I’ve got sympathy with you for that. But you’re young. You’ll get through it. You’ve got a beautiful home, an easy life, lots going for you. Look at me.” She tears off a piece of kitchen roll and blows her nose. “Life has passed me by.”

  “You haven’t got a clue about my life Mum,” I begin, poised to blurt out everything, but I’m cut off by calls of Fiona echoing around the hallway.

  “What’s he doing back here?” Mum hisses.

  Dad strides into the kitchen. “I’ll leave you to it,” I say to them, much the same as I did twenty-four hours earlier. Only now, so much more has changed. Then, I thought I had enough money to get by with. I knew I would have to chase my thirty grand investment back, but I didn’t know that Rob had wiped everything else out and plunged us into debt. What the hell am I going to do? Who do I tell? Where do I go with this?

  I fill a glass of water then walk past Dad, out of the kitchen, and towards the conservatory.

  * * *

  Everything seems to have gone quiet.

  He’s been released.

  Well his body has.

  Chapter 23

  I’m getting a migraine. I have been turning the money situation around in my head all day. I need more on this James Turner. I am going to speak to the police tomorrow. But tonight, it is more important that I attend the AA meeting. My sponsor rang me again to check I could make it.

  Mum’s gone home, thankfully, and Dad’s staying, so that’s one less thing to stress about. She can mope to her heart’s content in the comfort of her own home. She can drink herself into a stupor for all I care. I swallow. Hard. I might not have a home soon. One neighbour from two doors down left a casserole on the doorstep for us tonight. It’s the sort of thing my Grandma would have done when she was still alive. Dad made me have some. I’m so glad he is back. And if he’s struggling with his marital situation, he isn’t letting on to me.

  I need the AA meeting tonight. Without it, I may well have found a pub and got blitzed. I don’t know how much more I can cope with. I remember the words of my midwife when I was expecting Jack. Rob was working away, and I was lonely. Mum had been a right cow to me, telling me how I didn’t have the patience or the maturity to make a decent mother. I had broken down at my antenatal check-up and my wonderful midwife said, “God won’t make you carry more than you can bear.” That has always stayed with me.

  On my way to the meeting, I find myself at the ‘spot.’ I don’t know how I have ended up here – I hadn’t even planned to come this way. I slow down as I pass, realising that I can’t even recount the journey I’ve made so far. I keep doing this – zoning out. It’s dangerous really. If I can’t recall my journey, I probably shouldn’t be on the road. I guess that I’m just trying to hold everything inside my head.

  More bunches of flowers have been added to Rob’s roadside memorial. I have laid none and don’t feel inclined to. Not with everything that is coming to light. Somehow, I have to piece it together and try to reconcile everything with the husband I thought I knew. I don’t have time to stop and inspect the flowers. If you don’t get to the meeting on time, the door is closed. They’re strict on that.

  We only know each other by first names here. When I first started coming, I worried I may be recognised, or know someone else. That’s why I joined a group in Ilkley, rather than Otley. Still, it’s not exactly a million miles away. There are one or two people who look familiar, but I can’t place them.

  The heatwave has broken today, which I’m glad about. It was almost taunting me, the beautiful sunshine, clear blue sky and cheery people dressed in summery clothes. It’s been too much at odds with my own darkness and my struggle to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

  “Would you like a hug?” My sponsor approaches me as I make myself a drink. The familiar warmth pricks at my eyes again as I allow myself to be momentarily enveloped in the warmth of another human being. Lately, even Jack’s not as cuddly as he normally is, seemingly preferring the company of his granddad. Somewhere in my psyche though, I’m aware he’s detaching from me, perhaps because he fears losing me as well.

  Nobody here seems to know anything about what has happened to me this week. I guess that even if they’ve heard the news, they won’t make the connection with me as they will have only heard Rob’s name. They only know me as Fiona, a recovering alcoholic, not Fiona Matherson, wife, mother, daughter, and woman.

  We all sit down, and the usual introductions pass around the circle. I want to scream out, how can you all be so trivial? Do you want to know what’s happening to me? I’ve got a lid on my temper these days though, so I keep schtum, I used to lose it readily when I was in my twenties. I’ve lost count of how many jobs I walked out of and how many arguments, to the point of brawling at times, that I got into when drunk. I’m relieved I’m not that person anymore.

  We chant AA’s cornerstone twelve steps, church-like. At each meeting, a member takes a turn to be the main sharer about an aspect of their recovery from alcoholism. We’re not allowed to interrupt, but we can add comments or ask questions once they’ve finished speaking.

  I sit through a rendition of the man’s three instances of being banned for drink driving. He stopped drinking on the third occasion, after knocking down and killing a pedestrian. It really is close to the bone right now. He had been three times over the limit and served nearly two years in prison. He’s found God since being released, he says, and subsequently has to be reminded by this week’s chairperson that Alcoholics Anonymous is not affiliated with any religion.

  I look around the room. Everyone appears to be listening intently. My sponsor keeps looking at me. She’s the only one in here who knows what has happened. There’s a strong stench of feet combined with an overpowering deodorant smell. Cloth is draped over boxes of toys and musical instruments, and the AA’s posters have been temporarily pinned up around the room. All is normal and familiar in here. Except it’s not.

  The man’s voice drones on. He’s had his driving licence returned this week and knows he will never lose it again. He’s thankful for what the period of sobriety in prison, along with AA, has done for him. It’s all about him. I want to shout at him. What about your victim? What about their family? I wonder if they, too, have been left with empty bank accounts, and secrets which are crawling out of the ashes of the person who died. I can’t sit in here, I really can’t. I push my chair back with a scrape and lurch towards the door.

  “Fiona!” I hear my sponsor call as I slide into the car. “Come back.”

  My wheels screech as I reverse the Jeep, and again as I lurch forwards. I drive away from her then pull up in the road once I’ve got far enough away. I don’t want to talk to anyone.

  “Bastard!” I shout into the void of the car. “Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!” I thump the steering wheel in time to my shouting un
til my fists feel as though they might bleed. I don’t know who is the bastard. Rob, the AA man, Bryony, Mum, James Turner, Phillip Bracken, or the bloody lot of them. “Bastard.” I thump the wheel, less enthusiastically this time, and my body dissolves into tears. I cradle the steering wheel in my arms and let my head rest on it, sobbing so hard that my body shakes. “Bastard!” I howl into the silence.

  “Are you alright?” I hear a muffled voice from the pavement and a tap on the passenger side window of the Jeep. Without looking at the man, I turn the key and quickly drive away, tyres screeching again.

  * * *

  I’m in the clear,

  I’m sure of it.

  I can breathe again.

  Chapter 24

  “Do you fancy a bit of company?” Christina pops her head through the open conservatory door, making me jump. “You should keep this locked when you’re in on your own, you know. Anyone could sneak up on you.”

  “I’m not on my own. My dad’s here. He’s just got back from taking Jack to school.”

  “Was it your mum and dad that were shouting yesterday?” She sits beside me on the wicker sofa and places a hand on my arm. “I’ve been thinking about you, you know.”

  Her sympathy warms me. “They’ve been having a few problems. My mum’s gone back home now though.”

  “That’s all you need. Playing referee to your parents! I don’t know how you’re still standing.”

  “Neither do I. And you only know the half of it.”